


W Is For Waking Up

by mydogwatson



Series: A Baker Street Alphabet [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Marriage, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many ways to awaken.  Here are some of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	W Is For Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are moving through time again. A stop here, a stop there. Hopefully you enjoy the trip.

You will wake, and remember,  
and understand.  
-Robert Browning

 

1

The case had turned out to be somewhat more interesting than anticipated. As they do. At least it had done so if one found a late night chase through a closed market hall, falling off a loading dock, and/or thinking for at least a few moments that one’s friend/blogger/flatmate had suffered some possibly fatal injury “interesting.”

Luckily they both did. Although John could probably have done without the near death encounter with a meat cleaver. And, honestly, Sherlock could have done without that as well, since he did not especially care for the feeling of panic and dread that rendered him incapable of movement or, even worse, thought, until he heard a familiar voice shout up at him. “I’m fine, Sherlock!”

Even after that, it took an unacceptably long time [twenty-three seconds] for his breathing to return to normal so that he could turn his attention back to the miscreant.

As it happened, the only real damage was to the HOT BACON ROLLS metal sign that John managed to duck behind at the last possible second [unfortunately that sign was unacceptably close to the edge of the loading dock, which explained the fall].

But things moved quickly after that. Lestrade and the rest of that useless crowd finally arrived and the most complicated part was explaining how a prisoner already cuffed to a pole [according to him, anyway] ended up with a broken nose. Through the blood, he kept proclaiming that the “freakin’ tall skinny bastard cuffed me and then he hit me with a chair.” For his part, John claimed that he was at the bottom of the loading dock and didn’t see a thing. The tall skinny bastard just tightened his scarf and announced that he was taking John home because of the sprained ankle he’d suffered.

Frankly a mugger who targeted little old ladies had no defenders on the force [most of them had a Granny], so all was well, even if not handled strictly by the book.

No one objected as Sherlock strode off in search of a cab, followed more slowly by a limping doctor.

Once they were back in their flat, John pretty much taped up his own ankle while Sherlock criticised his taping method and waited for tea.

Finally, they more or less collapsed on the settee to drink the perfectly made tea, which took a little longer than usual to appear, due to the, well, limping. The odd part was, John didn’t really mind.

It was late, they were tired, and before very long at all they were both sound asleep.

John woke first and was mildly bemused to find himself rather wrapped around a long-limbed detective. Or maybe those limbs were wrapped around him. Six of one, he guessed. Didn’t really matter.

Then the detective himself was awake as well.

They just looked at one another for several beats. Then two pairs of eyes blinked.

John somehow detached himself and stood. “Shower,” he said crisply and limped away.

The detective watched him go.

 

2

John decided that somewhere, probably in the Midlands, there was a factory that turned out the uncomfortable plastic chairs that seemed intended to be used exclusively by worried people waiting beside hospital beds. Waiting for someone to breathe on their own or stop hurting or open their eyes.

It was rather amazing that anyone could actually fall asleep in one of those bloody chairs. Still, practice made perfect and, by now, to a couple of hapless adventurers [Mycroft’s phrase when he had dropped by to check on his brother] the hunks of tangerine plastic were almost comforting.

So once Sherlock was breathing on his own, John fell asleep.

 

He woke up slowly, stretching one body part after the other, and then, as memory returned, his gaze shot to the bed. Sherlock was still sleeping. The surgery had gone better than they could have hoped for and the bullet was gone from his stomach, leaving behind no permanent damage. The good luck continued as John had suffered only a little bit of frostbite on his fingers.

It all could have been so much worse and just thinking about it now made his chest ache.

He left the chair to stand next to the bed. One hand reached out to push a stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead. At the touch, two eyes flickered open. “Hello,” John said with a smile.

Sherlock just looked at him.

“I’m fine,” John said, answering the question that no one else would have even seen in the grey-green eyes. “And so are you. We are both fine. What a way to celebrate one year as flatmates, eh? We are ridiculous.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. But his eyes were not yet satisfied. John sighed and held up a hand. Two fingers were bandaged. “That’s all. I’m fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s lips formed the word, but no sound emerged.

“Sleep some more. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know,” the lips shaped. Then he slept again.

John went back to the chair.

3

John woke very slowly, reluctantly, as if he would really rather not. He stared at the ceiling, confused, because this was not his ceiling, not his bedroom. At last, he realised where he was. The night before he had crawled into Sherlock’s bed, wrapped himself around the pillows there, and fallen asleep inhaling the scents of the other man.

What a strange thing to have done, he thought idly, shifting the pillow in his arms. I do not sleep in Sherlock’s bed. Maybe this is a dream. Well, face the truth: It would not be the first time he had dreamt of being in Sherlock’s bed. Although in those other dreams, Sherlock was actually in the bed as well. But Sherlock was not here, only the scent of his shampoo and his sweat, and him.

And at last, John remembered.

This, then, was what it felt like waking up on the day after the world had ended.

4

A very fat man who smelled of dirty socks was pressed against Sherlock when he woke up. The coach was much more crowded now than it had been when he’d finally managed to fall asleep. One of the newcomers was the fat man who stank.

For some reason, after all that had happened over the past two months, waking up here in this noisy Albanian coach, being leant on by this disgusting person, almost seemed to be the worst moment. Which was ridiculous, of course. He had died, sort of. He had killed, brutally. He had been forced away from everything that mattered. Everyone that mattered. But still. This was horrid.

He closed his eyes again and remembered waking up once in Baker Street, on the settee all tangled up with John Watson, who smelled of Earl Grey and woolen jumpers and menthol shaving cream.

The massive shape next to him farted.

Sherlock refused to let loose the dampness that prickled just behind his eyelids, although he wanted to more than he had ever done before. He would not cry.

His last tears had been shed on the top of St. Barts. Those tears had been for his friend. For what he knew John was suffering so far below.

The tears that threatened now were only for himself and he did not deserve them.

5

It was not easy waking up.

John felt as if he were trying to push himself up from the bottom of a very deep hole, through layers of thick syrup. He struggled towards a very faint light, wondering if it were really worth the effort. Easier, perhaps, to just sink down and let the layers swallow him.

But after what seemed a very long time, he managed to take a deep breath and open his eyes. He found himself lying in a bed, surrounded by a number of beeping and clicking machines.

The first thing he saw was a man sleeping in a chair next to the bed.

No, not just a man.

Sherlock.

Though he seemed to hurt everywhere, the frown was not for himself, but for his husband. Sherlock was pale [not his usual porcelain shade, but simply drained of all life] and his clothes were a wrinkled mess. The dark curls were limp and greasy looking. The skin under his closed eyes was smudged. For the first time ever, Sherlock looked much older than his years.

John tried to remember what had happened, but at first it was all just a void. Then, slowly, a memory, vague and shapeless, came. A street, noise, screams, something big and bright green heading for him. A moment, no more, of dreadful pain and then blackness.

Until this moment.

As he watched, Sherlock stirred, as if aware of the scrutiny. He blinked twice, before a slow smile touched his lips. “John,” he murmured. “You’re awake at last. They said you were waking, but that was hours ago.”

“Sorry,” John barely managed to say.

Sherlock pushed up from the chair and stepped close to the bed. “I have been…concerned,” he said, putting a careful hand on John’s arm. “It looked as if you might break your promise never to leave me.”

John wanted to shake his head, but even the thought hurt.

Sherlock bent and pressed a kiss to John’s cheek. Then he rested his head on the pillow next to John’s and sighed.

John fell asleep again.

6

The sound of rain hitting the window woke Sherlock, but for once he did not mind. It even pleased him a little, because with no case on, a day spent quietly in the flat, warm and dry, suited him perfectly.

Sherlock finished waking and rolled over carefully to stare down at the face of the man sleeping next to him.

John was looking completely like himself again, eight months after the terrible accident that had almost killed him. He still tired rather too easily, which he refused to admit, and he limped again, but none of that really mattered. He was alive.

Sherlock quashed the voice of his better angel and ran a finger down John’s cheek. “Are you awake?” he asked.

“Well, I am now,” John said with fake petulance.

“Good morning. Although it seems to be raining rather heavily outside.”

“Excellent.” John opened his eyes and smiled. “Guess we’ll just have to stay in all day.”

“My thought exactly.”

“So how on earth shall we spend the day after our ten year and eight month anniversary celebration?”

Sherlock grimaced. “The celebration was a little late.”

“But worth waiting for.” John giggled. “Dinner in the mummy room at the British Museum? You are a bloody genius.”

“Well, it seemed so appropriate. Where it all began.” Sherlock grinned. He wrapped all his limbs around John and held on.

“It was brilliant.,” John said. “It was the most brilliant anniversary dinner ever.” He dipped his head to whisper into Sherlock’s ear. “Thank you, Lock.”

Sherlock’s lips were pressed to John’s skin. “Thank you, Jawn,” he replied.

After a time, they both drifted back into sleep, mostly just for the pleasure of waking up together all over again.

fini


End file.
